Requiem

CHAPTER 12

1997

It has taken three days to get across Ontario, but I’m headed for prairie, or almost- prairie. Somewhere outside Thunder Bay last night, Basil and I stopped at a motel where I was asked to pay an extra deposit at check-in—a damage deposit. I asked the young clerk if there was usually a rough crowd at the place but she shook her head, embarrassed by the question. I had to pay up—thirty dollars above the price of the room. And this was refunded when I checked out early this morning.

Now I wonder if the demand was made because of me, or because of Basil, who was allowed on the ground floor, end room only, but allowed nonetheless. There was even a hook for a leash attachment at the back of the motel, as well as a low wall tap, providing access to water.

The farther west I drive, the more dogs I see. I’m in big-truck country. Dogs ride shotgun or in the rear. Big trucks, big dogs. But I’ll wager that few dogs are as heavy as Basil. A woman stopped to talk to him in the parking lot this morning. She leaned down as if I were not present, though I was there beside him, leash in hand. She was wearing a faded winter parka, tight jeans and high black boots that were too warm for spring weather. She made sure I was watching. She patted Basil a few times, and I was about to warn her: If he jumps up and bounces against you, he’ll bruise your thighs. But I held my peace about her thighs. She uttered some endearments and strutted off towards her own big dog in her own big truck. Her hair swung over her face as she left. Not a word had been spoken between us. The encounter made me wonder if I’ve become invisible or if I’ve created my own impenetrable wall. Or was it an invitation and I missed the cues entirely?

By early afternoon, the clouds are thick and muted, full of moisture. Road signs have been ominous: FATIGUE KILLS, TAKE A BREAK. It’s impossible to ignore the wooden crosses that mark highway deaths, most of them at curves where road has been blasted through rock. The crosses stand for speed—the kind of unimaginable speed into which some ill-fated driver accelerated before careening off on two wheels into a wall of granite. At some curves there are multiple crosses, which is even more sobering. These are adorned with painted names, red hearts, gaudy artificial flowers that have been nailed or maybe wired on. It’s as if a special design exists solely for roadside shrines. On the American highways, I remember that the crosses used to be white—in contrast to the ornate creations I’m seeing on this trip.

Earlier today, after breakfast, I drove for a while and then parked the car and took Basil for a walk along the Wabigoon River. Gulls were strutting beside the riverbank, screeching after us once we’d passed. Basil wanted to give chase, but I yanked him up short on the leash. I took the leash off when we were out of town and we walked for another hour each way, invigorated by the air, the river in full spate, flowing swiftly towards its northern destination. This river’s story includes mercury and poison, I told myself. And hopefully, cleanup. I had already passed the divide from the Great Lakes’ drainage system to the Arctic watershed, and I wondered if the river had rid itself of mercury by spreading it north.

Basil, coiled with energy as always, raced ahead, circled back, checked to see that I was still on the path, raced ahead again. I tried to clear my mind but I kept thinking: I have to phone Kay to let her know where I am. I have to call. She’ll want an arrival date and I can’t give her one, but I have to call.

Now I’m in the car again, arguing with myself, hating the feeling of having to report. Kay knows I want to be alone but she also wants me to stop over and stay at her place when I reach Edmonton. She doesn’t believe I can do this—withdraw. She’s suspicious of anyone who does, because she can’t, herself. Although, to give her credit, she does stay in touch. She’s the one who makes the effort in the family. And she does make an effort.

I pull over and park beside a roadside restaurant. There’s a phone booth inside the entrance and I drop in a few coins, thinking I’ll invent the conversation after Kay picks up at her end. The coins clatter out again and there is no connection.

“Is the phone broken?” I ask the girl behind the counter.

“Nope,” she says. “But most of the time it doesn’t work.”

Fate decrees I will not speak with Kay today, so I go back outside, where Basil is bellowing like the hound he is. Not only is he howling, but his huge paws are bouncing off the window while he lets the world know he’s been abandoned. Two men are standing beside my car, trying to soothe him by talking through the crack where I left the window down.

“Your dog doesn’t like to be left on his own,” says one of the men, accusingly. His expression of scorn matches that of the second man, his twin, maybe. The two have matted hair, long, drooping faces, skin the colour of cold porridge.

“We don’t do things like that here, Chinaman,” says the other. “How long you bin over, anyway?”

There’s no answer to that. I’ve heard it all before. To them, I could be the heathen stepping out of “Gunga Din.” This is my own, my native land, I tell myself, and unlock the car.

I have to clear the inside windshield, it’s so steamed up. Basil aims a sharp bark at the lingering twins and their self-righteous stares, and settles down again to gnaw at his Kong.

“Thanks a lot,” I tell him as I start the car. “I did leave your window down, you know. You have air, you have food, you have water, you have my company twenty-four hours a day. And if you behave like this again, I’ll marry you off to Kay’s little scrapper, Diva. Would you like that? Would you? They marry frogs in Bangladesh to stave off drought. Don’t think I can’t arrange your marriage to Diva to stave off petulance.”

He raises his head, pulls another sound from his repertoire and yips like a fox. He stares at me with innocence and continues to chew.

As I drive, I’m seeing the faces of indignation left behind. I don’t care to think about what the two men were trying to protect. They probably don’t know themselves. Is it about being better? Is it about owning the right to belong?

I can’t pretend I haven’t wondered about Greg since he left home. The unposed questions about belonging. It was Lena, not I, who marched right into his classroom when he was in grade four and had been called slant eyes by a boy at his school. Maybe the protest did some good, maybe not. An assembly was held the next day by the teacher, no mention of the name-calling, no finger-pointing. Instead, a discussion on uniqueness and celebrating differences, which Greg told us about when he came home. Who knows if the discussion changed anyone’s behaviour?

That was when Greg was a child. And what about now? If he has learned anything from my behaviour, he has learned to keep the insults buried. Maybe I’ve let him down in that department, but there aren’t any rules.

I see a gas station and restaurant ahead and decide to try phoning Kay again. If I get through to her, she’ll know enough not to press. But she’ll be wondering about my whereabouts. She and Hugh will be having conversations, trying to figure out exactly where I am. They’ll have a map laid out on the dining-room table; they’ll be making guesses. They’ll be discussing Lena, too. And First Father. I don’t even want to imagine what they’re saying. I don’t want their concern or their pity. Go and see him, Kay will say. Why won’t you ever forgive? He has to see you. How much time can he have left? He’s eighty-four. It’s easy to find the place. It’s on the way into Kamloops, on the outskirts of the city. A small house on a dusty road off the main highway. Mother always took good care of it. He used his redress money for the down payment after the Apology. It’s a shame Mother didn’t live to own the house she’d rented for years, but they never had the money. Of course, when he made the move to purchase, we helped him out.

Of course.

I don’t want their interference. Not that they’re interfering right now. How much more alone could I be than in a car travelling a straight line across the country? If there’s something to work out, it’s called grief. It’s close and it’s sorrowful and it’s something I haven’t put a name to. Anger, maybe. At everything. At Lena. She shouldn’t have died of a stroke. She had warnings and didn’t pay attention. She didn’t tell anyone. She didn’t tell me and she didn’t tell Greg. And now we’ve both lost her. Was she frightened? Did she have a foreboding? Did she not understand the danger, or did she understand it all too well?

The worst part to think about is that if she had paid more attention—or if I had— she’d be with me now. There was medication in her purse, untaken. I didn’t know she’d seen the doctor, didn’t know she’d been advised to control her blood pressure. I didn’t know her blood pressure was high enough to need